CustardQuest III - The Real-Life, True Treasure-Hunt Game



  Investigative Notes: CustardQuest III

  Released December 7, 2012 - 8:00 a.m. ET

  Reward: $350

  by Custard Marks

  Copyright 2012 Custard Marks and CustardQuest

  Investigative Notes

  Case Name: The Odd Man Out

  Subject Matter: Unusual Encounter

  Date of Report: December 7, 2012

  "I smell dead things," Will had whispered.

  It had been one of those late-autumn days in which the brittle morning air softens in the afternoon sun. There were two unusual things about November 12, 2012. First, although it was a Monday, we had no school because it was a holiday. And second, it was unseasonably warm. It was such a fantastic coincidence that it made you wonder whether god was an 11-year-old kid too.

  I had curled my lip when Will pointed out the stench in the air. We were walking behind the museum in an alley downtown, but ahead was the back door to Janis Lyn's Meat Market, and the dumpster was right outside the rear exit. Janis's husband, Mr. Fideli, was dumping something that had once been under fur or feathers into the trash receptacle. Mr. Fideli was so old that I didn't know whether the foul odor was decomposing animals or one of Mr. Fideli's feet, which had been in the grave for years.

  He looked up from his gruesome work as we passed. "Where you boys going?" The smell of rotting flesh was sweeter than the tone of his voice.

  "Down to the tracks," I said, although Will and I hadn't discussed any particular destination when we'd departed the Scotts' farmhouse on Route 24, which turned into Main Street when you reached the edge of downtown.

  "I'd be careful." Mr. Fideli only half glared at us, because his lazy eye was looking at who knows what.

  "Nice talking to you," said Will. "Always a pleasure."

  We continued due south. Part of the navy sky was hidden behind beautiful clouds, and a river of geese flowed through the fluff on their way southward. The orange sun was stitched to the sky with glittering scarlet and gold thread. The twins would have been doing chores had this been such a nice day in the summer, but there wasn't much to do on their farm this time of year. Windy was playing in a soccer all-star game this weekend, and her practice today left our motley trio a duo.

  "I see dead things," whispered Will, as a funeral procession made its way up Main Street.

  To our north was the Faithful Always Memorial Chapel, and the death parade was heading there. I didn’t like to take the sidewalk past it because behind the wood-and-stone chapel was a marble forest of monuments and memorials. The creepy old cemetery was small and bordered the railroad tracks. The sun lit each memorial this late in the autumn, unlike in the summer when the surrounding forest-green canopy hid them in locust shade. Parking in the large lot east of the chapel, the black Cadillac hearse killed its engine. I walked with fortitude past the cemetery and toward the tracks, determined not to see the poor soul disembark from the Caddy.

  Past the chapel, we took a path through a small wooded area on the outskirts of downtown. Just when we had left the discomfort of the cemetery behind, something even more discomforting took its place in my brain. "Do you think there are any dead people in these woods, Will?"

  "Why would there be any dead people here?" he had asked. "Spare me your ghost theories, please. This is my day off from school and unexplained phenomena."

  "These woods border the cemetery behind the old chapel," I told him. "I'm sure they didn't mark all the graves very well back in the old days. There has to be some dead people under these woods. Maybe this is what Mr. Fideli was talking about when he told us to be careful."

  "There are no dead things in these woods." Will shook his head. "Except your brain."

  I wasn't so sure about either of Will's assertions at the time, but now I'm 100% sure he was wrong about both.

  The path through the woods led to a gully. Somebody had constructed a small wooden footbridge consisting of 4"x4" lumber buttressed by old red bricks, and thick moss tried to repel our boots when we crossed it. The path then turned sharply south, running parallel to the double tracks, until forking 80 feet past the bridge. One path led over the railroad tracks and toward the river on the other side. The other path continued beside the tracks until it disappeared into the distance.

  Although Robert Frost pondered which path to take, he was not a lazy 11-year-old kid on a day off from school. We took neither the road more nor less traveled but instead plopped ourselves down right there at the fork on a large rectangular boulder along the northern edge of the path. The boulder was completely flat on top, providing a perfect place for crossed legs, a pair of muddy boots, and idleness.

  The rocks that lined the rails spilled over to the area around the boulder too, and Will started throwing them across the tracks at a faded sign. I did the same. Wordlessly, a competition started up, with each of us keeping score silently. It was no contest really. Will was destroying the old metal railway sign. Every clang made my head jar and my teeth chatter and was sure to wake any forgotten souls resting under the trees behind us.

  After a half-hour, Will finally asked me how many hits I had, and he laughed in my face. "Ninety-five to one? You scored only one more point than a dead person," he said. He leaned down again and reached for a nondescript gray stone just under an overhang at the bottom of the boulder. After peeling it from the mud, he heaved it at the sign.

  But just as the rock left Will's hand, something very small dislodged from its underside. A soft ding tickled our ears when it landed on the bed of rocks beside the tracks.

  Will jumped up to retrieve it. He studied it until he sat back down beside me.

  The interesting little thingy was metal, flat, and about the length and width of a toy Matchbox car. Will rubbed off some dirt with the pad of his thumb.

  "Let me see," I said. But when I reached for it, Will spat on it, and I gladly let him retain possession.

  Will squinted. "There's something engraved on it, but I can't read it."

  "May I have that back?" said a voice.

  On the other side of the double railroad tracks, walking up from the woods along the banks of the river was a man. His face was pale but dirty, and it was as expressionless and weathered as the gray autumn trees from which he had emerged. He wore formal but shabby pants and a matching long jacket with a bunch of buttons and pockets on it. The fabric was faded to a dull olive tone. He was generally disheveled, except for his hair, which was cropped tightly.

  He held out his hand as he approached. Crossing the tracks, he did not look down at the uneven ground but kept focused on the object in Will's hand. I will never forget his eyes. Although I might have interpreted them as vacant and void of emotion at the time, now I think I would better describe them as being filled with a deep sadness.

  The man's advance was not threatening, but always the first to fight, Will jumped to his feet and assumed an aggressive posture. I assumed a frightened posture behind my best and bigger friend.

  "How do I know it's yours?" shouted Will as the man neared us.

  The stranger's expression did not change. He kept walking, hand outstretched. The skin over his bony fingers sagged, although he could not have been much older than 21.

  The man with a face as whitewashed as the old wood siding on the Scotts' farmhouse finally stopped about 6 feet from us. By this time, I had moved from behind Will, and the three of us formed points of a triangle, valleys of suspicion dividing us.

  He still held out his hand. "May I have that back?"

  "Prove it's yours," said Will.

  "My name is on it."

  Will looked over both t
he front and back of the metal piece, eyed the man, and then studied it again. Will offered it to me, and when I wouldn't take it, he shoved it into my palm. "Do you see any name on this, Custard?"

  There clearly was something stamped into the metal, but it was impossible to say what because the metal was so dimpled and dented. "What's your name?" I asked him.

  "Jefferson, sir."

  "So is his name on it?" asked Will. I shrugged and handed it back to Will as fast as I could.

  "I don't see it on here," Will told him. "I'm keeping it. For all I know, it's worth some money on eBay."

  The man's hand was still reaching out, palm up, waiting, but he said nothing.

  My preference at the time would have been to give up the goods and run. But not Will, who said, "If you want to fight, then let's battle. Cross that line, and it's on, bro."

  The young man's eyes betrayed nothing that was going on inside his head. If he was angry or sad, he did not